


Royaltea

by ClockworkSampi



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 17:22:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5172731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkSampi/pseuds/ClockworkSampi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>King Asgore's continued inability to comprehend wordplay drains Monstrous Ambassador Frisk of Determination.</p>
<p>An expert is called in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Royaltea

It was a bright spring day, pleasantly warm under the chilly breeze. His Majesty King Under The Mountain Asgore Dreemurr was passing the time until his next diplomatic meeting by indulging in some decorative hedge trimming in his suburban front yard. He didn’t know when exactly it would be, but it would come eventually.

 

The human leaders, for reasons beyond his comprehension, hadn’t taken his chosen ambassador as seriously as he would have hoped. While Frisk was nothing but Determined to make them listen, it wasn’t until Asgore began appearing alongside Frisk in full regalia that they finally began to heed the twelve year old’s counsel.

 

A distressingly large amount of things on the Surface could be achieved by sole virtue of having to enter doors one-half at a time. It was indeed an odd place.

 

Then there was all the paperwork. The humans, for all the stock they place in appearance, certainly invested more in words than Asgore hoped. Ambassador and King opted to split the reports and treaties and invitations and ratifications down the middle; some things were impossible for one person to deal with on their own. Having to go to school while Fighting for Mercy around the world, for instance.

 

Asgore, being the responsible adult he was, naturally offered to shoulder the heaviest burden should the need ever arise. It arose more times a week than he thought it would, but Frisk’s algebra homework was simple enough after he remembered how it worked. Frisk, being Frisk, always repaid him with boundless kindness, at a great personal risk. He had the dreadful feeling that if Toriel ever found out half were going to him, she would stop making butterscotch-cinnamon pies for Frisk altogether. A fate he wouldn’t wish on anybody.

 

He was glad he got to keep a garden on the Surface, though. He always felt his calmest working under the shears and trowels and magic. All at once, the summits became words in the planner, the paperwork was merely another task and the crown would be just another hat on the peg.

 

He became suddenly aware of some light _tack_ ’s between the smooth sliding sounds of his shears. There was a part of King Asgore, probably the part that didn’t do gardening, which was frighteningly adept at picking out oncoming sounds. These footfalls, he knew, held nothing to be concerned about. There was only one person who had footsteps with that very distinct ‘not heard until they want to be’ quality.

 

He turned when the clack of heel bones met grass, smiling.

 

“Howdy, Sans. I pray you forgive me for not having a kettle on. I wasn’t expecting company this afternoon.”

 

It was unlike Sans to show up so out of the blue; hardly unwelcome, though. Asgore never did talk to Papyrus’s brother as much as he would have liked. Those white pinpoints floating in his sockets bespoke of much more than they let on. The main obstacle was that Sans was eternally too busy for a proper conversation - coming and going from one break to another and perpetually falling behind on naps, as it was understood - which Asgore did his best to respect.

 

Sans, for his part, offered a cordial elbow shrug in the face of the King’s faux pas.

 

“Eh. It’s cool, Mister Dreemurr, sir. I’m kinda the uninvited guest here. I mean, I just got off the phone with Frisk. Doubt they would’ve told you I was stoppin’ by to give you a hand in the thirty seconds it took to take the shortcut here.”

 

“Hm?” Asgore’s smile remained stationary, but his brow knit inquisitively. “Give me hand? Whatever for? And, please, Asgore will do, Sans.”

 

Sans scratched that back of his skull. “Actually, before we get to that, do you mind if we go inside? I like to keep these casual, everyday life-altering conversations over something hot in a homely atmosphere.”

 

“Oh. Alright. Just give me a few minutes to clean up and get some tea ready, will you?”

 

 

\-----

 

 

It was fifteen minutes later. Tea had happened in the meantime.

 

Sans downed his mug in one gulp, once it was appropriately ketchuped to taste.

 

Asgore eased himself into the chair opposite. He set his own steaming tea cup on the table.

 

“So tell me, Sans, what have you been sent to assist me with?”

 

Sans appeared not to hear this. He was rubbing his chin theatrically and appraising his mug, as if it was a black board filled with quantum theorem.

 

“This was some good stuff,” he said. “Well, guess that’s not a huge shock or anything. You have royal-tea, don’t you?”

 

“Oh. No. Not at all.” Asgore waved a shovel-sized hand, smiling. “I just bought this from a lovely café only a few blocks away.”

 

The King’s words hung in the air amongst the tea steam.

 

Were they in Grillby’s, the Dogs would have hushed themselves, and everyone would be surreptitiously glancing at the tableau.

 

“Hoo, boy,” said Sans at last. “Frisk said it was bad, but this…? Man, oh man, Asgore. Let me tell ya, that kid has the biggest heart I’ve even seen if they can stand to give you a compliment like that.”

 

Asgore’s face was one of polite incomprehension.

 

“This is the worst I’ve ever seen it,” Sans went on. “Not even Papyrus has it _this_ bad.”

 

“Erm,” Asgore folded his hands, “Has what, exactly? If you don’t mind me asking.”

 

 “Majesty, I hate to be the one who has to tell you this, but I’m afraid you have a terminal case of not understanding puns.”

 

“I see. Gosh. That’s not contagious, is it?”

 

“Hopefully not,” said Sans, winking cautiously. “It’s going to take a lot of time and care, but you’re in the hands of Doctor Sans now. I haven’t lost any patience!”

 

“That’s good, I suppose.” Asgore took a sip of tea, completely missing Sans’s eye socket twitch. “But I must ask, is it really entirely necessary to learn puns? I mean, we all have our own humor, don’t we? The world would be a much worse place if we were all the same.”

 

“Yeah, for sure. Don’t take this the wrong way, everyone knows you’ve got a sense of humor, Lord Fluffybuns.” Sans’s ever present grin grew a fraction when he saw the pink glow on Asgore’s ears. “But, let me put it to ya like so: you like Frisk, don’tcha?”

 

“Of course!”

 

“And take it from me, they like you too. A lot. But they’d like you more if you started laughing at their jokes.”

 

Asgore opened his mouth, and then flinched.

 

“…what do you mean, ‘their jokes?’” he rasped. “Frisk has always been the epitome of a straight faced professional whenever we are working…”

 

“I bet.” Sans’s smile suddenly had a lot less humor in it.

 

A withering quiet pervaded the room. The steaming tea stopped. A shadow seemed to fall across Asgore’s face.

 

“What must I do then, Sans?” Asgore said, morosely, as if trudging the words back from the dead. “Please Sans, teach me your puncraft.”

 

Sans saw the recollection smoldering behind his King’s eyes. Well, well, well. Looks like there’s still hope for ol’ Mr. Dad Guy yet. Good thing Sans was an ardent believer in as many chances as it takes. As quickly as it went, his joviality returned.

 

“Well, your majesty, you’ll be pleased to know that admitting you have a problem is the first step. Heck, you already have a leg up on Papyrus, he’s been denying he loves puns for years.”

 

“He does? I was under the impression he utterly despised them.”

 

“You’ll be pleased to know many people express their enjoyment of something with a healthy scream of rage. Seriously, have you even met Undyne? Anywho,” He held up a finger. “Step numero uno for wordplay: Decide your subject and have an intimate understanding of it. Since both of us know them so well, let’s use Frisk and Toriel as our examples.”

 

Asgore nodded.

 

“So, Asgore,” Sans continued. “Why was Frisk so okay with being adopted by Toriel? Remember that this is a joke.” Sans had the uncomfortable feeling that that was an important point to reinforce.

 

Asgore stroked his beard in contemplation for, what Sans felt, was far too long for a simple bad joke.

 

“Because Frisk is a real _kid_ at heart!” said Sans, then added when no lightbulb flashed above Asgore’s head: “Get it? Because Toriel looks kinda like a goat a l’il bit, and Frisk is their kid, right, and goat kids are technically called kids, and it’s a deconstruction of a popular saying…”

 

His voice trailed off. He looked pleadingly at Asgore’s patiently nodding face, which appeared to be staring at nothing.

 

The King finally seemed to grasp that something was required of him.

 

“Oh. Um? Sorry Sans. I guess I…missed it?”

 

“Don’t worry about it. Not even all of mine can be winners all the time,” said Sans diplomatically. “Why don’t you give one a shot? Try to pick something you know enough about. Like…why not gardening?”

 

Once again, the contemplation took too long. Sans, who considered himself enough an expert at reading faces to recognize bone-dryness when he saw it, opted to show Mercy.

 

 “I’m sure they’ll _grow_ on you eventually.”

 

Asgore gave a resigned sigh. “I pray you are correct, Sans. I certainly don’t feel like they are now.”

 

“No worries. It’s alright. Let’s just skip that for now. Ready for the second step?”

 

“If you think I am, then by all means,” Asgore smiled anticipatorily.

 

“Yeah, you totally are,” said Sans, in the tones of one who didn’t think that. “Once you know what your subjects are going to be, think of all the different jokes you can make from them. Bone puns are great for this. Not only are there skele- _tons_ , they’re also the most _humerus_.”

 

“Really?” Asgore leaned forward with an air of fascination. “Why is that?”

 

Sans hadn’t been prepared for this. He carried on, albeit with no small amount of visible effort:

 

“Which isn’t to say you can make puns about any old thang. Take, for example, broken spears. Those jokes can be pretty _pointless_. Or inkless pens, they really can’t _illustrate_ their punchline.”

 

“Golly! How very interesting. Is there perhaps a formula of sorts?”

 

“Yea, it’s all very _rational_ when you get down to it, but that’s going on a _tangent_. Not to be _mean_ , but we should stay in learning _mode_ here.” Sans looked like a skeleton regretting all of his life decisions.

 

“Ah. Absolutely. My apologies. Please, continue.”

 

“Actually,” Sans stood up so fast his chair nearly fell over. “Would you look at the time. Can you believe I’ve been away from work all this time. Should be going. See ya later, Asgore. Think about what we’ve talked about. Yes, it will be on the final.”

 

The bewildered Asgore said something Sans didn’t listen to, but waved farewell to regardless.

 

Sans was surprised to find how fast he was walking away from Asgore’s house after he regained mental normalcy.

 

He cringed as the memories replayed themselves in his head.

 

King Asgore was never someone Sans really had much of an opinion on. He was just a pretty chill guy who loved peace enough to go to war to keep it, and never saw being King as a reason to command, only as a way to bring his people together. In short, Sans liked him. Everyone liked him. Sans couldn’t remember the last time he saw Asgore legitimately scowl. Except, now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember the last time he heard the King’s laugh either.

 

It was easy to see what Toriel saw in him. And when it came down to it, what she didn’t.

 

Sans looked toward the sky. It was too nice out for a catastrophe of this caliber to be unfolding. That was one thing he never liked about the Surface. The weather had no sense of drama. The sun was always making light of terrible situations.

 

Man, why was keeping a promise so much work? He had to stop making them.

 

Sans was, after all, only one skeleton. There were limits to his meager abilities. Yet he just had to go and give Frisk his word that he would help Asgore. Now he had to. Sans may have reveled in laziness, but letting someone else down was fundamentally different in a way he could not abide.

 

Was there actually any hope for ol’ Mr. Dad Guy? Maybe. But…

 

There were some people Sans had to talk to. Good thing he knew that shortcut.

 

He turned at the corner of the block–

 

 

\-----

 

 

–and knocked on Frisk’s door before pushing it open.

 

The Monstrous Ambassador was sitting on their bed. A textbook on, apparently, _Early Advanced History_ was pulled open in front of their face. Sans could see the cover of political public speaking manual peaking up from behind it. There was a highlighter tucked behind their ear.

 

“Sup, kid? I talked to Asgore. You’re right. He’s got less than no idea.”

 

A grave nod was sent his way.

 

“Friendo, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I can do, and believe me, spreading the joys of bad jokes is probably the only thing I’d put half an effort into. I’m good, I know that, but some people just can’t be helped. Sometimes, you just gotta admit when you’re out of your league. I mean, c’mon, we’re gunning for the championships here and he doesn’t even know which basketballs are for wearing.”

 

A lopsided frown trekked its way across the human’s lips.

 

“Between you and me?” Sans continued. “If you really wanna help your dad, we need to go directly to the big guns. Don’t think I can do anything, and that’s the truth. But-”

 

Frisk snapped their book shut. They knew what was coming.

 

“-we both know who can.”

 

The two were silent as the implications of entreating such a thing were diffused in their minds. Then came the tiny, unbreakable voice of Ambassador Frisk:

 

“Do it.”

 

Without further word, Sans stepped outside of Frisk’s vision–

 

 

\-----

 

 

–into their home’s den. Sans found who he was looking for seated in massive reading chair.

 

Toriel looked up from her book.

 

“Ah, hello Sans. Forgive me, I did not hear you come in. How are you today?” She said, with a smile like the warmth of a fireplace in the winter. Which did not help matters. There was something about unwavering amiability that made approaching certain topics more difficult.

 

Sans drew himself up to full height, so he only had to strain his neckbones slightly to meet the sitting Toriel’s eyes. He wondered how many knock-knock jokes worth of good will he was going to have left. Welp. Here we go.

 

“Tori, I got a huge favor to ask, and you’re gonna say no. Just hear me out, okay? This is for Frisk.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked what you read, please consider commissioning me to write for you, it'll help me out a lot!: http://clockworksampi.tumblr.com/post/146010687102/sampis-commission-information
> 
> Fun Fact: Frisk's title of 'Monstrous Ambassador' is a reference to the title to one of my favorite novels. Can you figure out what it is?


End file.
